Evil Is A Fiction
by frostygossamer
Summary: Chuck is in therapy. His analyst diagnoses his neuroses from his fictional works. He isn't impressed. AU. Thirteenth and last in my 'Evil Is As Evil Does' sequence.


Summary: Chuck is in therapy. His analyst diagnoses his neuroses from his fictional works. He isn't impressed. AU. Thirteenth and last in my 'Evil Is As Evil Does' sequence.

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><p>Evil Is A Fiction by frostygossamer<p>

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><p>PoV: Chuck Shurley a.k.a. Carver Edlund, cult author and alcoholic<p>

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><p>It was some guy at my first AA meeting that recommended his analyst to me.<p>

"A great guy", he said. "Very insightful. Dunno what I would have done without him."

Considering the state he was still in, I didn't know if that was any recommendation, but I thought, what the hey. Monday I was in his office telling this 'great guy' my problems, while he sat nodding and pulling his beard like Freud himself.

I told him I was an author, a published author. I hoped it would impress him. He seemed deeply unimpressed. But with his 'Same time next week' he promised to have acquainted himself with my 'output' by our next meeting.

Same time next week I entered his office. I immediately noticed a pile of thumbed paperbacks on his coffee-table, ominously decorated with post-its, protruding from between their pages. He had been making notes, copious notes.

I sat down opposite him and crossed my legs nervously.

"Good morning", he said. "And how have we been feeling this week? Any worries?"

"Well, no", I began, hesitantly. "Not exactly. Or at least I guess it depends what you would call worries. And I, er, well..."

I was starting to ramble. I was kinda glad when he cut me off.

"I spent some time last week perusing a few of your... novels, Mr. Shurley", he said, in the tone my old Math teacher used when she was disappointed with my written work.

He waved a hand toward the pile of books on the table. "Slim volumes. A little overwritten for my taste. Not exactly relaxing reading."

I groaned inwardly. Like I needed a literary critic right now.

"However, they provide some vivid insights into your thought processes and... neuroses", he continued.

"Neuroses?", I thought. "So he's noticed I'm neurotic? Hey, this guy is pretty good."

"The problem is", I replied, fiddling nervously with a shirt button. "This stuff. I don't make it up, not consciously. It comes from my dreams. I get these headaches. And then I drink. Too much, I guess. And when I fall asleep I get these dreams. The next day I gotta write them down."

"Ah", he said, leaning forward, now animated. "Dreams? Now as a Freudian I believe that our dreams are the window to our inmost self. Dreams are what make us different from the animals, Mr. Shurley. Dreams hold the answer to our human predicament."

I could see in his eyes a glint of the fire that had sent him to college to study Psychology in the first place. Frankly it scared me. He chuckled and settled back into his creaky leather chair.

"To return to your books", he said, turning back a few pages of his notebook to reveal a long check list.

"Let's consider a few of the points I noticed."

"Firstly", he said, sucking the end of his pen. "The genre. Horror, angst, somewhat Gothic fantasy..." and he looked over his horn-rims at me. "Textbook Freudian."

He proceeded to analyse the two main protagonists, their relevance to my relationship with my parents, and my fear of things that go bump in the night.

"The two main characters", he said. "Clearly two contrasting and complementing aspects of your own personality. The dark and the light, the passive and the active. You might use the term 'yin and yang'. They are brothers, of course, and they are only whole when together, when separated... disaster. Clearly you have some unconscious awareness of the massive dichotomy in your psyche. Possibly a slight tendency to bipolarism. We'll have to look at that."

The doctor paused at that point and looked at me again. I squirmed in my rather uncomfortable chair, and awkwardly recrossed my legs the other way, away from him.

"Do you have any history of bipolar disorder in the family, Mr. Shurley?", he asked, solicitously.

"Oh, no, no", I stuttered. "My parents never had any mental health problems. No Sir. Well, accept me", that was meant as a joke.

The doctor coughed and continued reading from his notes.

"Tellingly the dead mother is beautiful, kind, even saintly. Yet she is sacrificed in book one."

He seemed a little shocked at my cavalier attitude to motherhood.

"My mother is still very much alive. In Cleveland", I assured him.

The doc looked at me over his glasses again as if I'd proved his point.

"The father, passionate, driven, yet emotionally distant", he continued. "And now also dead."

I twitched. I was always something of a disappointment to Shurley Sr. He wanted me to be a lawyer, and I never finished school. But that's another story, nothing to do with this, right?

He stopped to rest his voice for a moment and poured himself a glass of water. He gestured, offering me a glass. I nodded, but as I raised it to my lips I wished to Hell it was whisky. As I sipped, I tried to imagine it was.

He went on. "And the context? So obvious it's hardly worth mentioning. The world is full of things that scare you, interpreted as ghosts, ghouls and sundry bugbears. They're the reasons why you haven't succeeded in life, why your relationships with the opposite sex always end badly. It's not your fault, there are things out there trying to get you. You fight back. Sure, you fight back every time, and sometimes you do win a little. but every time they come back. It's pessimistic, cynical, even downright gloomy. And you seem to be looking for the answer at the bottom of a bottle."

I put my glass down hastily, feeling busted. Well, that I sure couldn't deny. After all it was how I'd gotten there.

"The question is: is it your depressive imagination that's leading you to drink, or is it the drinking that's damaging your mental balance?"

He smiled benignly at me and for some reason it made me feel kinda nervous.

"I think we should start by addressing your alcohol problem first, Mr. Shurley", he pronounced, slamming his notebook shut. "It just happens that I know a particularly fine alcohol rehabilitation clinic. It's run by a dear old friend of mine. Marvellous record. Excellent results. I'll run you over there right now and get you registered."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he took absolutely no notice.

"Complete peace and calm. Plenty of meditation. No outside distractions. Definitely no writing whatsoever."

I protested again, but he was already bundling me into his car.

And that was it. A few months in the clinic and I was right as rain. I still see my shrink weekly. He's been a big help. No more headaches. No more having to knock myself out with booze so I can sleep. And, best of all, no more Winchesters. I've given up writing for good. I'm gonna get myself a real job.

I thank you with all my heart, dear Dr. Kripke.

The End

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><p>PoV: Becky Rosen, Supernatural super-fan, webmistress, Chuck's ex<p>

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><p>*Submit*<p>

The bus rounded the corner and pulled up to her stop. Becky Rosen put her iPhone back in her pocket, as she shuffled to the door and stepped down onto the pavement with the other passengers. She smiled a little knowing smile and, turning, disappeared into the crowd.

The End

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><p>AN: OK, that was the last one of these. Now I have the first four eps of S6 to catch up on, so I'm off to scrub my mind of all inappropriate ideas and immerse myself in the real thing. :D


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